


Ever After I thru III and Interlude

by thebasement_archivist



Category: The X-Files
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1999-09-30
Updated: 1999-09-30
Packaged: 2018-11-20 11:55:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11335179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebasement_archivist/pseuds/thebasement_archivist
Summary: Life after Colonization





	Ever After I thru III and Interlude

**Author's Note:**

> Note from alice ttlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Basement](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Basement), which moved to the AO3 to ensure the stories are always available and so that authors may have complete control of their own works. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Basement's collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thebasement/profile).

 

Ever After by Te

29 Nov 98  
Ever After  
by Te  
11/98  
Disclaimers: Anyone you recognize is most assuredly not my own.  
Spoilers: Not a one, really.   
Ratings Note: Strong R for language, disturbing content, and implied m/m relationships. Oh, and call this one an AU.   
Summary: Life after colonization.  
Author's Note: I had this odd little scene in my head that I couldn't fit into any of my series or unfinished stories. Kass encouraged me to try to write it anyway, and this is what happened.  
Acknowledgments: To my Sister Blue, because she makes all possible endings happy. To Pares and Rye for splendiferous beta. 

* * *

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
Ever After  
by Te  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

There was nothing on this plain of simple autumn.

Sere wind and brown grass. Could have been just another fall were it not for the particular shade of the grass. It all suggested char, and there were no promises of rebirth here.

A wider view, after all, let a person take in a forest of dead trees. No comfort, little shelter. But Walter had made it enough.

New England, New World Order. 

He paused, looked up into a smoked sky. Felt out of place for a moment before he realized no birds would cry welcome or warning. Not anymore. Those species that had lived on the growing things were long gone. The carrion lovers would find better pickings in the cities for years to come.

//We all find the best way to survive.//

It was silent, and that wasn't right, but at the moment, there wasn't much he could do about that.

He continued on, avoiding the twigs more out of habit than anything else. They might have failed, but no one had ever found the base. Not this one, at least.

Just another dead tree reaching for the sky, but it wasn't. Not all of the Others had been enemies, and their allies had been free with certain technology before being annihilated in the Purge. A bootheel to one gnarled root -- sharp and quick --and Walter was dropping down and down...

The chute was an alloy of titanium and some multi-syllabic compound whose name had never stuck in his mind. Pendrell had been so excited about it, he remembered. Going on and on about products for the home, eyes bright with new information and fantasies.

Walter tried not to let himself remember the changes in that face when he'd told the man not to waste his time thinking about anything other than weapons.

Regret, ashes in old water and Walter kept sliding down and down... The weapons hadn't made a difference, and Walter would give anything just to be able to go back in time and let the little man ramble for a while longer about ovens and lawnmower blades.

Hitting the pad at the end of the chute was a shock. In the beginning the slide had been a long dark slice of hell, a funhouse ride with no cotton candy in the air. The chute was small, and Walter had always been a large man. He looked at himself in the gentle ambient light of the foyer --not an ounce of fat. The war had worn him down. Eaten away at the muscle he'd carefully added since coming home from that other war.

Perhaps if he found home again he'd

//You eat *all* those potatoes, son. We want you to be strong.//

go back to normal. The inevitable laughter at that thought had grown hoary enough to ignore.

He ran a hand over his head -- not even a fringe anymore, skin was easier to camouflage than hair ---

And he remembered Dana. Never Scully once it all started to go wrong, whippet thin and so angry. At herself, at Mulder, at the Others for being too real. She'd dyed her hair black but They got her anyway. Walter had heard an innocuous little "phut" and Dana had spun some thirty degrees. He remembered the brief snarl, the creep of black from under her suit that contrasted so neatly with pale, pale skin. Her hair had fanned slightly as she fell. Another damned processing plant in Utah and there had been nothing to do but blow the place.

No guilt for that -- Walter knew the "merchandise" would've welcomed any sort of death at all -- but he didn't like to think of Dana as being just more of the mingled ash on the wind.

Walter stepped into the cramped pantry. Corned beef hash for him, broth for his new guest. He hoped the little greenhouse garden would survive this year. The supplements helped, but sometimes Walter was morbidly beset by images of ancient sailors...

It would've been better outside, but the risk was too great.

Into the kitchen and he cocked an ear at the sleeping area. Krycek was still asleep by the sound of it. Not that he had anything in particular to fear from the other man at this point, doped up and restrained to one of the jerry-rigged "hospital beds" they'd added after the first raid, but old habits died hard.

Krycek had been a mess when Walter had -- nearly literally -- stumbled across him on last night's scouting

//Come off it. You just needed the sky.//

mission. A shadow among an army of them, wasted, thin, and pounding on the hard pack of the ground.

"I know you're down there, goddamnit! Let me in please Christ let me--"

And he'd burst into tears, then, utterly oblivious to the man above him.

Walter had just stood there for long minutes, intrigued by the break in the silence. Unable to speak despite the questions welling up in the back of his throat. It had been a long time.

Finally, the implications of the other man's words had sunk in, and Walter had slung him over one shoulder in a fireman's carry. Bad enough the other man had known where to find this place; his screams -- however fascinating in their unfamiliarity -- were too much to risk.

The other man was out of it, still sobbing, occasionally punching weakly at Walter's spine. He'd hoped his body would muffle the sounds.

After he'd tossed him down the chute and twisted an ankle not landing on him, he'd dragged Krycek to the makeshift infirmary and taken a good look at walking death. It wasn't so much that the other man was in such bad shape -- all that impromptu field medic training from days long and not so long ago only revealed exhaustion and some measure of malnutrition -- but the eyes...

Wild and darker than he'd ever seen them. They'd had a history, and he knew all sorts of things about Krycek's eyes. Rage and fear, dark joy and lust. Just a few nights stretched over a few months but Walter had taken all he could from the other man. Shameless greed, because Walter had long since learned not to let chances go unexploited. But wherever Krycek was, it wasn't here. 

The harsh white light effected his pupils not at all, and Alex never stopped speaking. Shock, then. A sedative, and a little hope the man would be something like coherent when he woke again. 

So Walter could learn a few things before he killed him.

Back to the stove with the sharp scent of burning. He'd put the little saucepan on without actually adding the soup. Walter shook his head and wondered how much longer he'd actually make himself do this. A sick parody of a life, waking and sleeping in silence, walking through air thick and cool with ghosts...

Spender had to lose an eye before figuring out that he didn't want this new leadership. No fascist truly enjoys life under another, after all. Despite Walter's innate and unshakable desire to crush the little bastard under his heel, he'd made a good operative. Lots of good information before he'd gone silent, though the last message had only been "father, running."

And there was nowhere he could have run to, not from that deep inside the puppet administration. Walter prayed for him too, now, and hoped his words were just as worthless as any whispered over tombstones. 

He tossed the pan into the wash water, idly wondered if the thing could be melted down into anything useful. He decided not to bother with Krycek's soup until he'd stopped snoring. The hash was just as greasy as it always was, but the walk had left him empty enough to appreciate the way it settled in his gut, warm and solid, and nutritional value be damned.

He thought of the last beer. Fifteenth raid and no casualties, for once. Spender had come through with the goods. Havson had taken point, as always. Deadly silent and quite mad. She would sing old Floyd songs to an odd little key ring, and never answer why. She would -- and had, this time --occasionally snap guards' necks instead of just using the silenced 9 mm. Or the plam. Said it reminded her of who she was, though she never elaborated on that, either.

There had been a cheap bottle opener on the key ring, and, after taking out a few middle-management types -- and enough researchers in pristine white to make Brian spend the whole night trying to beat the punching bag to death --they'd used it on a case of Saranac Black & Tan Mulder had liberated from God only knew where...

//Only because they didn't have the Beast. Philistines, all of 'em.//

... and laughed and drank. Even in the darkness, it had almost been too bright to sleep.

Havson had died stupidly. Tried to snap a throat when she should've used the plam. They'd had to abort -- mission twenty-eight it was -- and another body was left behind. He thought of comrades long dead and prayed for forgiveness. This wasn't their world anymore. 

Walter had hated to admit it to himself, but in those days it had been easier, somehow. The ones he knew had died with so-called first contact, whether or not they still fought at his side. The ones he didn't were just makeshift soldiers, and it had somehow fallen to him to lead them.

//You're the soldier here, Skinner. I know you'll listen to me when I tell you something, and that's all I need to know.//

At first, without even the dubious bond of testosterone and pain Parris island had provided... The casualties had been an issue of mathematics, and, in those days, it was easy to find new recruits. Each raid, each whisper found someone the Others hadn't. Yet. But that had dried up, too, and Walter's worst nightmares were silent.

Over time, they became a corps of sorts. They got better at what they did, even as the odds got worse. Living, sleeping, fighting together... And sometimes Walter would hear sounds in the darkness he could pretend were more hope than comfort. 

And when they died -- one by one until the last raid -- and there was neither time nor space to grieve, they had all started to understand Havson a little more. Sometimes Walter still wondered who the key chain had belonged to, and if he'd been kind. 

He looked down at his plate and tried to force the pattern of chilled potatoes and beef into some sort of sense. Walter understood the impulse to grasp order wherever it could be found, and at times like these he called the collaborators brothers. 

He didn't feel the tears until the collar of the brown on brown day uniform was damp, and by then he couldn't care.

******

Hand on his shoulder and Walter snapped awake, wincing at the neck cramps, knowing they wouldn't fade as quickly as they used to. Stupid to believe the restraints would hold Krycek once he woke. This place had never been meant for prisoners. 

"You're losing it, Skinner."

"You're stating the obvious, Krycek."

"Too fucking early for philosophy."

"It's..." a chanced movement to check his watch, "past two in the afternoon."

"There is no safety in daylight, old man."

"I'd imagine not, for you."

"Or you, Skinner. You're quite a famous man, these days."

"Why the fuck did you come here?"

The hand was gone and Krycek moved to one of the other chairs. Tapped the prosthesis lightly on the table. It ended in what looked like a socket to attach things to.

"If you're looking for your hook, I think you left it in Manhattan."

Krycek eyed him closely from across the table, but made no reaction to the dig about his former alliances, otherwise. Walter used the silence to examine the other man. Thinner, older. Patch of white in the back, streak of same over his right temple. Hair less cut than butchered into wild spikes. The circles under his eyes were deep bruises, but the gaze itself was clear. 

"Why are you here?"

"You're repeating yourself. Where is everyone?"

"Not here."

Krycek snorted, flicked a look over the surroundings before slowing down for a more detailed examination. Walter knew it wouldn't take long to see the dust on all the coffee mugs, to test the quiet's heft. When he looked to Walter again, Krycek was serious.

"All of them?"

Walter nodded once, and for a moment it was as though a child had tossed a pebble into some stagnant pond. Just a ripple, and Walter felt something he couldn't quite name at the sight. The return of placid was fast and complete, though.

"Well, that fucks everything up."

"You could say that, yes."

"Why are *you* still here?"

//Why am I still alive? What war am I fighting with no army, do you mean?//

Walter stood, retrieved another pan from the cabinet and put on the broth. "I ask myself that every day, Krycek. Something like an affirmation."

"I'm good enough, I'm smart enough, and gosh darnit, if there *were* any people I'm sure they'd like me."

Twist of something inside and Walter was momentarily too stunned to strike out. The brief bark of laughter was filthy in its comfort and when he turned to look at Krycek he saw a mixture of release and self-hate that felt familiar enough to make him want to smile. He nodded toward the pot and spoke.

"There isn't any bread -- Garfield was the only real cook around here -- crackers OK?

"Ritz?"

"Saltines."

Brief flash of teeth. "I'll cope."

"How noble of you."

"His name was *Garfield*?"

"Yes, so of course we all called him Sparky."

A real laugh this time and Walter decided that when he killed this man he'd do himself the same favor. 

"I would've gone for Honeybear."

"Yes, well, you weren't there, now were you?"

Silence, and Walter wasn't sure whether he'd meant the jab or not. He left Krycek alone to get the crackers.

*****

A week or so of a richer silence. Walter would surprise himself by waking alive, do his tour of the grounds. Wonder idly if it was December yet. One day he'd seen a deer, but she'd been scrawny, fur patched with whatever sickness would eventually let her die. They'd watched each other over a sluggish stream before going their separate ways. 

He'd come in to see Krycek scowling over a bowl of powdered eggs --

"Any dill?"

"No."

"Cumin?"

"No."

"Paprika?"

"Not for... months maybe? Not important. No paprika."

"Garfield was a suicide, wasn't he?"

\-- or exercising in the makeshift gym, or touching Mulder's books. Not reading them, just stroking the spines and studiously ignoring Walter's presence behind him. In the old days they would carefully rip the dead ones' belongings to shreds in some brief time of calm, and burn what was flammable in the stove. Bairstow had told him it vented some fifteen miles to the north, deep in a cave. She'd invited him to see it --

//It's beautiful, sir...//

\-- but there were always raids to be planned. Bairstow had died of apparent appendicitis a month after Dana was lost. She'd gone to bed laughing about clam sauce. After the last raid, Walter had tried to re-enact the ritual alone, but there had been too many things to cry over. 

Walter would eat his own breakfast and find a quiet corner to do his best to think of memories old enough to be toothless, or nothing at all.

******

Another month, perhaps two, and Walter had begun to dust and order things. Packed all the mugs away save for the one Krycek had taken to using -- Greer's. The other man had found a book about vegetable gardens among Mulder's possessions -- never opened -- and now saved his best curses for the little greenhouse, though food still received quite a few. 

One night they had tomatoes and pickles with their canned ham and potato flakes, and Walter realized he hadn't thought about Sharon in more than a year. The fresh fruit was too good for him to fall into the old rhythm of trying to decide whether he wished her dead or thriving, though, so he settled for a silent prayer. 

After dinner, Krycek washed the dishes without a word. Too slow and careful to give the appearance of awkwardness, truncated prosthesis holding dishes against the wall of the sink to avoid slips. Every other night, as it had been...

"Why did you come here, Krycek?"

"I was working with some people. Frohike was there... you knew him, right?" Krycek didn't turn from the sink. 

"Yes."

"It all... it all went to shit, Skinner. I was out doing some surveillance with him, and when we came back there was nothing but bodies. We were in the city, and we'd stayed in the same place too long. We got complacent."

Walter caught himself nodding at the other man's back, but couldn't think of anything to say. He settled for a small grunt.

"I knew... I knew of this place. When it was all just starting up I could still keep in contact with Mulder every once in a while, and he told me. I ordered him not to, but he did any damned way."

"How long had you been his informant?"

"Before the Antarctica thing. We... we were--" Alex cut himself off with a shake and returned to the table, but didn't look at anything but his own hand. "Frohike and I ran, and this was the only place I could think to go. Frohike went to use the restroom at a gas station just outside Chatham, and when he wasn't out without five... When he wasn't out within five I waited five more. And then I couldn't anymore."

"So you came to tell us that D.C. has gone dark."

"Yeah. At least... yeah."

They sat there for a few minutes, and Walter waited.

"He didn't tell you about... about me being his informant?"

"I suppose he considered it worthless knowledge once the two of you lost contact."

"And useless knowledge to the strategist can kill the team."

Walter nodded once.

"So why am I still here?"

Walter laughed darkly. "I was just assuming you were waiting for me to like you so you could have your own affirmation."

Alex looked up with bright eyes, smiling wanly. "Do you remember every stupid joke?"

"I take what I can get, Krycek."

"Could we lose the last names, soldier-boy? No troops around to impress with our good example."

"Not if it means I get stuck with soldier-boy."

"Walter's all that much better?"

"I could just call you Betty from now on."

Alex fluttered his lashes, smoldered at him from under their curtain. "I didn't know you liked those games, big boy."

The falsetto was really too much and Walter let himself laugh, calming only when he saw the honest hunger in the other man's eyes. Easily mistakable as lust, but though he knew the man had to have been celibate for quite a while, he also knew it had probably been far longer since he'd made someone laugh without an edge. Krycek reached out to touch his face and Walter caught his wrist, careful yet firm. The flesh under his palm was warm, sparse hair tickling. 

"What are you doing?"

"Christ, I just want to touch you. It's been... Fuck, let me go."

Walter complied and Alex wrenched his hand away. There was no way for the other man to rub his wrist, and Walter felt regret for more than one reason. Krycek looked at his arm, shook his head, and then stared directly into Walter's eyes.

"So tell me how you did it, Walter. How you taught yourself perfect, zen-like abstinence."

"I didn't."

"So my charms are simply powerless to move you?"

"We both know that's not true."

"So what is it?"

"Kry-- Alex. Alex, look, neither of us have probably... probably done anything like this in too damned long. When's the last time you actually touched someone you weren't searching or killing?"

"Exactly my point." The words were tight, bitten off.

"No, it's mine. I don't want to have sex with someone who doesn't want to have sex with me."

Krycek started to speak, but Walter caught his wrist again. 

"I know whose clothes you're wearing, I know who you came for, and I know who you think about when you jerk off in the shower. What's the gain for either of us for you to get fucked by a dead man wearing the wrong body?"

Krycek's mouth tightened, but he didn't bother to deny it. Walter pulled his hand away before the touch could burn anymore than it already had. 

"Alex, even if we just try to hold each other--"

He waved Walter off. "Yeah, yeah, I know. Shit. So we sleep alone."

A long pause, and Walter caught himself trying to pick out the rhythm Alex tapped on the table. He wondered when he'd grown so desperate as to seek order from this man.

"Walter."

And he was snapped out of himself again. "Yeah."

"How... how did he die?"

Walter scrubbed his face roughly with his hands, took a deep breath.

"It was the last raid. All of our contact networks had gone down, and it had been quiet. For weeks. Suddenly, Mulder got word that a weapons facility was going defunct. We always needed new weapons, and even the old ones... "

The thought was unnecessary and he let himself trail off. Walter knew the other man would let him take all the time he needed.

"So Mulder got word. He told me the night before we moved out that he'd sat on it for a few days. It had been so quiet, and this contact hadn't sent a word in nearly two years. But this contact was Langly."

"Fuck, fuck, *fuck* --"

"You knew about him?"

"Frohike... Frohike wore turtlenecks all the time. I saw him coming out of the shower once..." Alex ran a hand around his own throat. "He told me Langly had garroted him, left him to die. No one knows where Byers is."

"Why didn't -- Oh."

"Right. And by the time Frohike figured out things were bad enough that protecting Mulder's feelings was worthless we'd lost contact. You know, he didn't tell me what had happened for weeks, ligature marks or no. It took him a while to trust me for some reason." Dark smile too brittle to last. "Christ, I should've--"

Krycek cut himself off with a humorless snort and Walter abruptly felt about ten years older. 

"Lambs to the slaughter."

Walter nodded.

"How did you get out?"

"I was pulling up the rear with Mulder and Bryson. We saw the shit go down and scattered. The first rendezvous point was too close to the zone to check, the second was deserted, I got back here--"

"And started to wait."

"What are you talking about?"

"You. You stage your little patrols, you eat, you work out, and you wait."

Walter felt himself growing angry. "I'm not waiting for anything."

"Close. You're waiting for nothing. Waiting to die. Everybody else is gone, why not you. Isn't that it?"

"And if it is?"

"Didn't you know, Walter? Death only comes 'round when you *don't* want it to. Like a damned relative looking for money."

"You have relatives?"

"No, asshole. I was the first documented case of spontaneous generation."

"So what are you suggesting?"

"Well, sex is clearly not happening and suicide pacts just aren't your style --" 

It was a ghost of the fast and glib little husk he remembered from other nights, and Walter couldn't allow it to continue. "People change."

"Come off it, Walter. You're only holding on to the self-pity because you've gotten used to it."

"Then I'll ask you again. What, precisely, are you suggesting?"

Walter caught the other man's eye again and felt something start to burn. Krycek seemed to be holding back a widely predatory grin by sheer force of will, and his eyes were moonlight on black water. 

"One last ride, Walter. Kill until we're stopped. Sleep with a full moon blanket. Cordite and blood. I know you know what I'm talking about."

"Suicide."

"As suicides go, can you suggest a better way?"

Walter thought of years past, remembered listening to the music of his country change from thousands of miles away. Remembered not being able to blame the drugs when the belief took hold that the new, darker music was both blessing and sign.

"Have you changed so much that you'd honestly sit in your little mausoleum and wait until you got tired enough to die?"

He looked at Krycek, and when he smiled it was as good as a dead Charlie.

"When do we leave?"

~~~~  
End.  
~~~~

Note: Definitely inspired by "Fatherland" and "In the Bleak Midwinter." Sorry.

 

* * *

 

28 Nov 98  
Ever After II: Road Songs and Memory  
by Te  
11/98  
Disclaimers: Not mine, and it's sad, really, because they need me *so* much.  
Spoilers: Not a one.  
Ratings Note: Strong R for language, m/m interaction.  
Summary: On the road with Walter and Alex.  
Author's Note: Sequel to "Ever After," and it's probably necessary to read that one first. A couple of months have passed.  
Acknowledgments: To Sister Blue for being Sister Blue. To Dawn Sharon for fine audiencing, including the vastly important asking of questions. To Rye and Alicia for fine, thorough, and patient beta, and to Di for many helpful comments...

* * *

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
Ever After II: Road Songs and Memory  
by Te  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

******  
How'd you get so desperate?  
How'd you stay alive?  
****** 

//Brush of lips along the back of his neck and Alex was confused for a moment, unsure whether to press back or lean forward, open more of himself to the gentle pressure.

//"Alex..."

//The whisper decided it, and he was falling to the mattress, Mulder's weight both warmth and desire along his back. The tangled sheets were a tease of rough cotton on his chest. He looked down at himself, not at all surprised to be nude, though it was disturbing to be unable to make out his surroundings beyond the boundaries of the bed.

//Mulder began to move his lips down Alex's spine and thought was lost. This was so wrong, there had never been time to make love to each other like this--

//"God, I missed you so much..."

//-- but they would make the time, and Mulder would chase his shadows away. A hand caught his own, twined and squeezed. Mulder had missed him, too.

//A breath and he was on his back and Mulder never stopped moving, hands roaming his chest, flowing over the scars without a break. Gentle on his ribs for no reason Alex could fathom, rough with desire on his nipples.

//"Don't stop."

//Mulder smiled, and the scene began to fade. Alex tried to hold on, desperate with the knowledge that would never leave him be, even at the best moments.//

But, as is the way of such things, the struggle only made him wake faster.

Warm not-quite glass against his forehead, a crick in his neck, and the thrum of an empty night road beneath the wheels of the car, low and hypnotic.

A glance at the clock revealed that he still had another twenty minutes before the scheduled pullover. Alex didn't wish to try to sleep anymore. At first, they'd both played a little loose with these things, but after a tired stumble had almost lost Walter to the Others...

It had been a shock for both of them to discover a desire for life, so unmistakable in the sharp jab of terror at that instant.

They kept a rigid schedule these days, only deviating when the road was suspiciously full. Or when they got that feeling.

//Alexei, I will teach you to plan. I will teach you to know every escape before you ever enter a room. But sometimes, there will be nothing but that rush...//

Peskow was right, and he'd only had to lose an arm to figure that out. Other men were not so lucky.

Walter had the news on, as usual, and the steady drone of lies and propaganda in the whiskey-smooth voice was lulling and pleasant.

No better reminder of why they were doing this than the soothing pap of the enemy.

"Did you sleep well?"

A nod he knew Walter would catch out of the corner of his eye -- it was good the older man had paid for the surgery before things started to go wrong... Strange and terrible world, and sometimes Alex wondered if he'd be fighting at all were it not for Mulder.

It would have been a good life. Home and safety, money, power...

Maybe even a new arm so he could fiddle with his balls while he jerked off thinking about things he'd never have.

No, he'd made his choice. He wasn't fighting for some noble ideal of freedom. There was no freedom for him, never had been. And most of his collars had been comfortable and warm. He'd changed sides because he'd *wanted*, and there'd been no other way to *have*.

The first time Mulder had stroked Alex's cheek, whispered his name for no other reason beyond hearing himself say it --Well, if that moment hadn't been worth this reality then he wasn't sure anything was. 

And the idea that it might not have been wasn't one he cared to consider. 

"Strike tonight?"

Walter frowned, grunted. "No."

"We'll be there in an hour."

"Research facilities always have more guards."

"Old man, who the fuck do you think you're speaking to?"

Walter turned from the road to stare at him for a long moment, disconcerting despite the highway's smooth, straight emptiness. He didn't speak until he'd turned back.

"If I was talking to *you*, I wouldn't have had to answer the question."

He was right, of course, but Alex didn't bother to say it. Walter knew he never had to repeat a lesson with him. 

"Alex--"

"Don't."

"You need--"

"To grieve, yes. But the last thing I need is a shrink with a gun habit."

A chuckle. "I would think it would make you more comfortable. More willing to... talk things out."

"If you put on any folk music I'll gnaw out your intestines."

"We could just sing."

Alex tried and failed to hold back a rather strangled laugh. "All right, I admit it."

"Admit what?"

"I'd pretty much kill to hear you rumble out 'Big Yellow Taxi.'"

"Yeah, but you'd also kill for a decent omelet. Doesn't tend to make a man feel flattered."

"Never underestimate the power of a good omelet." That last came out garbled by a late attempt to swallow his words, but it was really too late. He bit his tongue anyway. 

"Do tell, Alex."

"I..."

He heard Walter suck in a breath, but there were too many minefields within each of them to apologize for triggering them.

"Look, Alex, you don't have to--"

"Yeah, I think I do."

"All right, I'll play sympathetic CO to your sad little private."

"And later you can comfort me at length? With a paddle?"

"No, no. This time I'll just use my hands. Only sad little DIs get the paddle."

Alex let himself laugh, drift. These rhythms had grown older with them, and the voice Alex had come to think of as his personal censor had long gone silent. A year with Mulder, three without. Not even a chance to smell him again.

"I couldn't always stay the night."

The news had switched to a Muzak version of some pop song, and Alex turned it off, settled back in his seat, checked idly for tails in the rearview. 

"I cooked him breakfast one morning. He had a block of cheddar in his fridge so damned old that after cutting away the mold I was left with this little nugget." He held his fingers just slightly apart. "It was good, though."

"Some things are better a little spoiled."

Alex nodded, thought for a moment of jokes about aprons and biology experiments. Of sleep-warm skin behind his ear. Of the curiously slow restlessness of Mulder's hands over his body. A sense of being unable to get enough of infinity. 

"So I made him an omelet and he did his best to fuck me through the counter and the eggs were vulcanized rubber by the time we got to them and we made each other eat them anyway and I just fucking *can't*--"

"It's all right, it's all right--"

"No, it's not fucking all *right*, Walter. Why the fuck are we still alive?"

"God hates us."

"And we'll never get the chance to beat the shit out of Him, will we?"

"Greer left some brass knuckles behind. I plan to be buried with them, just in case."

Bark of laughter, edged crystal and bright in the car. "What did I do to get to be so fucking good at staying alive?"

Walter pulled over -- deserted camp grounds by the look of the worn signs. This road had no strategic value, but he pulled as far into the woods as he could just the same.

They sat for a while, listening to the tick of the cooling engine, loud in the silence. Alex felt the fear start to build, that itch between his shoulderblades that had rarely failed to warn him he was staying too long in one place.

"C'mon, *sir*. I asked you a question."

"Don't play that damned game, Alex. We both know each other a hell of a lot better than that."

A long pause to hear the ticking slow to a gradual stop.

"Let's just do the scout. This is Iowa--"

"Nebraska."

"Whatever. Corn, so I must be crow."

"Can't you be the damned cicada this time?"

Alex's mouth twitched for a heartbeat, and then he stepped out of the car. The muffled "asshole" was as much of a comfort as anything could be these days.

He took east and south, as usual, and saw nothing but the night. These places had always been empty and spare, and it was almost possible to believe that nothing at all had changed.

He counted off the second mile and squawked, listened for the toneless chirps he knew worked the hell out of the other man's throat. It wasn't even revenge, really. The more Walter growled and rumbled, the better he felt. 

Mulder had liked it when he growled, too. Mulder had claimed to like it all, and the way the other man would moan for him had made it impossible for Alex not to trust him. 

Southeast corner and Alex bent to feel the ground for the vibration of coming trouble. Nothing, and that was just fine. The checkpoints in Illinois had been ubiquitous, a never-ending series of stomach plummets and irritation with each other.

Somewhere between the underground base and the first opportunity to flash their faked papers, they had decided not to just start trouble at the first modified toll area -- Walter called them Simper Stations -- they came to.

Alex told himself it would've been too easy to die that way. He wondered if Walter had made up some explanation about wanting to die with more than flunkies as his companions. 

In any case, they'd taken a lot more care with themselves than Alex had expected. Hence the scouting, the careful schedules, the fifth innocuous minivan in less than a month...

The habit of survival was etched deeper than anything else in their brains, it appeared. 

Maybe if they'd stolen that motorcycle instead they would've stayed closer to the plan. He entertained the image for a moment, Walter pressed close behind him, roar of some heavy engine thrumming between his legs. One sharp curve too many and they'd be nothing but broken dolls burning by the roadside.

First mile of the eastern walk, another sharp cry, another chitter, and Alex became aware of just how badly he wanted to sleep.

And fight.

And scream.

Not the first time the conflict of unsure feelings had beset him, but perhaps the first where there would be no room for him to let loose. He never thought he'd one day think fondly of the silo, and yet there was a sort of delirious freedom in the memory of it. No escape, no one but himself to think of. He doubted the alien was any more bothered by a former host's madness than by his resistance to takeover.

Here, any scream could mean things crawling out of the dark, and his death would have no resemblance to the oblivion he imagined.

//Are you really gone, Mulder? Would you hate what I've become? Would it be so much of a shock?//

And yet what had survival gained him, really? The front line of a pointless war? A companion more in love with some idealized end than himself? Another too present to be ignored, too dead to touch?

He thought of the first time, how he'd lied to make Mulder believe in a rookie too green to resist exploitation.

He'd long since taught his body to lie, but it hadn't been necessary that time. He'd made Mulder hungry for him, and was devoured whole. So vulnerable and needy -- Alex had known precisely how he must have looked. But the lie... The lie made him wonder if his body had simply grown so proficient at its art that he could be fooled into the belief of any pleasure.

Mulder was the only person to ever make him long to be just as weak and human as the rest of the world used to be.

One last mile, one last squawk, and Alex was moving to the center, trusting that Walter had already found some suitable hideaway for them both. It was Alex's turn to get the sleeping bags.

It itched not to sleep in the car, to have to rest away from the most practical means of escape, but it looked better not to.

//Appearances will keep you alive, Alexei. One day you will be old, like me, and no one will think it strange if you laugh at them for being so stupid as to underestimate you.//

Alex stopped in his tracks, reached for his gun and had begun to scan for targets before he realized the sick lurch he felt had more to do with his thoughts than the outside world.

//At least I still know how to protect myself.//

And that was precisely the problem. He couldn't remember what Mulder had been wearing the last time they'd seen each other, but the slide of the gun over his palm had been too fast and natural to notice. Alex wanted to grieve more powerfully than he could remember wanting anything--

//Oh, God I want you--

//I'm here, I'm here...//

\-- but there were some things that hadn't ever been allowed, and he could only hope this need would pass. Or that the fits and starts of memory would eventually be enough.

******

"You took longer than you should have."

"Thought I heard something."

Walter nodded, took his sleeping bag from Alex and began to shake it out. There would be no more questions on the matter. Real trouble would've meant another cry, or a longer absence.

They settled on the soft nylon and shared the food and tea, still warm from the thermos. 

"You want first watch tonight, Walter?"

It was Alex's night for first watch, but this was as close as he'd probably ever come to an admission of weakness short of having a bullet imbedded somewhere. He didn't know whether to laugh or swallow his gun. Walter nodded, looked up to search his eyes, and for a moment Alex let him see whatever he could.

"Still trying to figure out the meaning of life?"

"I'd settle for just the meaning of my own."

"You're not the type to brood, Alex."

"People change?" He couldn't keep the plea out of the jab and he wanted the silo again. "Fuck, Walter, this..."

"It's not so much you're alive than the fact you're *you*, isn't it?"

"The urge to break into song returns..."

"Good. You can sing me to sleep when it's your watch. Get some rest."

There were worse things than being with someone who knew you well enough to know when to shut up. Or someone who, when he was weary, could just look to himself for cues. Alex finished his tea and settled in to sleep.

******

//Alex picked up the receiver before the first ring registered. The so-called "psychic" phones were a waste of money and space save for one thing -- they delayed the ring long enough for a person to reach the phone without alerting any unwanted listeners. He waited.

//"Five one one, answer."

//"No, fucker, it's nine one one so get off the goddamned line."

//"I got clear. I'm --"

//"Don't tell me!"

//"Chipmunks and Asp--"

//"I said don't!"

//"Too late. I love you."

//And Mulder had hung up without waiting. Stupid to be angry that the man had chosen *one* protocol to follow among half a hundred, but there it was. Alex would find a way to get him back for it someday.//

******

"Up, Alex. It's been three hours."

"Erph. I'm awake."

//Can't the man even touch me long enough to shake me awake?//

Alex sat up and rubbed his eyes, tried to capture the exact sort of smile that had been in Mulder's voice that day. The failure was acceptable, he knew he'd known it in the dream. Chipmunks and Aspen wanna-bes. Not much of either by the time Alex had gotten there.

"Anything?"

"Bird call about half an hour ago. A real one."

He couldn't decide whether to be angry or not that Walter hadn't woken him for it.

"It only called once, so..."

"And you're sure it was a bird?"

"I saw it take off to the northwest."

Alex nodded, rummaged through the pack for an energy bar.

"Low fat? You gotta be fucking kidding me."

"Never, ever let a woman shop for supplies. I think there's still some butter left in the cooler."

"Three days since it's been safe to pick up new ice..."

"I sniffed it before I left the car. Not too bad."

Alex snickered. "Just the same, I think I'll let you have some first."

"What am I, your official food tester?"

"Yes. Less than fifteen twitches and we'll have buttered..." Alex squinted to pick out the words on the package, difficult without a fire, "... raspberry surprise power bars in the morning."

"I always did want my very own gourmand."

"Fairy tales... could come true..."

"Oh, Christ. Please stop." 

"Hey, I've been told I have a very *nice* voice."

"Nice isn't how I'd describe your voice, Alex."

Alex let the words hang there for a moment before responding. "Why aren't you asleep yet?"

"Your rendition of Armstrong may very well have traumatized me for life. I'm not tired."

"I thought we'd moved past these little butch games, Walter."

Walter looked at him, and Alex was grateful for the lack of starlight this night. In the overweening darkness Walter's eyes were black pools, comfortably foreign to these lonely stretches of deserted farmland. Just like him. 

"I said, I'm not tired."

"I see, so this is where we get into long discussion about how childish it is for you not to sleep, and you subtly toss in how childish it is for *me* not to talk about my... feelings."

Walter chuckled, crawled into his sleeping bag. "All right, *now* I'm tired."

"If it makes you feel any better, I probably would've fallen for that bit before... before Mulder."

"Somehow, I doubt that." A yawn from the almost-official four feet away.

"All right, all right, but I might've been able to *pretend* I fell for it without smarting off within fourteen seconds."

"You were under five, son."

"Son? Jesus, Walt, I know we're not having sex but was that really necessary?"

"I'm sorry, but.... Do you think I'm doing this for you, Alex? I've never been that altruistic."

"Impose a little distance, mirror that cold patch of ground... Old man, whoever you think you're doing this for is getting screwed."

"I still don't want to be your dead lover."

"You couldn't if you tried."

"You sure know how to sweet talk a man, Alex. How the hell did he resist you for so long?"

"He always was a damned masochist. And, besides, who says there was any talking involved? We didn't get that much time."

"No one ever does. Did you make the most of it?"

"Another Hallmark question--"

"There's a reason they wound up on those insipid little cards."

"All right, fine. Yes, we did. If we only had an hour we'd talk *while* we fucked. He told me about his sister, I told him about my uncle--"

"While you had sex?"

"Asshole, that was a *different* conversation."

"Sorry, just had some truly disturbing imagery hit. Go on."

//You tricked me into it *anyway*. You fucker.//

"He always seemed to know what I needed. I thought... I thought he'd be a more selfish lover. I asked him about it, he just asked me the same thing you did -- 'What makes you think I'm doing this for you?'"

//Parking garage of the Hoover building and he might as well have had a target painted on his back, but it just didn't matter with his back to the wall and Mulder on his knees...

//"Jesus, I just came to t-tell you -- Oh Christ Mulder please --"

//He'd taken him deep, never once said a word and worked him fast and hard, tongue whipping fast and clever, one hand playing with his balls, the other pressed gently against Alex's heaving abdomen. 

//Sharp click of heels forty -- thirty? -- yards away and the zing and flash of terror snapped his hips with mindless precision even as he bit his lip hard enough to draw blood.

//I love you I love you I love you and later he would hope he *had* said it aloud, because there had been no time for anything beyond --

//"Pick up. Merchandise already damaged. Conn. and f-f-fourth..."

//Mulder had licked him once, chin to cheekbone, nodded, and left. Alex was already back on the streets before he thought to check his pants.//

Alex shook himself out of it, looked to Walter. The other man was resting his head on his hands, gazing up at the cloudy indigo sky. "You cared about him, and he cared about you, and now..."

"And now what, Walter? He's dead, I'm not, and why the hell did I have to... go through that?"

"We don't get much of a choice about these things, I know. Maybe God gets a kick out of all the free porn."

"I produced all *kinds* of porn, dammit. You fucked me in every damn room of your house that weekend."

"Not true. We never got to the attic. I seem to recall someone bitching about being sore."

Alex laughed, didn't bother to choke back the sob this time. "Wouldn't it have been better if I'd never fallen for the contrary sonofabitch?"

"For who?"

"Me, Skinner. *Me*. No one else here but me and you, and you were never a part of... of us."

"Cope, Alex. Not everyone gets to be alive before they kick."

"Not everyone who gets to be alive has to die again."

Dark chuckle, gleam of teeth and Alex wondered just how much better his night vision could get. "No, we're just the lucky ones. You ever read this sci-fi story? I can't remember the name of it. Just some kids on this planet where the sun only comes out every seven years or something?"

"Yeah, they lock some poor kid in a closet, and forget about her until it starts raining again. I think I knew that kid. Bitter, bitter woman."

A grunt. "Before or after you had sex with her?"

"If I had a pillow, I'd throw it at you."

"And I'd thank you kindly and rest my weary head. I miss hair, dammit."

Alex snickered, settled back against a mossy tree stump. "You can have some of mine next time I visit the stylist."

"You know, not so long ago kids would pay for that 'I Accidentally Got Stuck In A Ceiling Fan' look."

"I'm just trying to get in on the retro trend, Walt. So, what you're saying is that the little girl never got to see the sun, and all she had was the... the memory of the other children laughing and playing and I should just shut the fuck up and be happy *I* had my time in the sun. It doesn't scan. The girl never knew what she missed, so she could never grieve for it. The *other* kids had to go back inside and think about something they might never have again."

"I guess... I guess you just have to decide that whatever happened was for the best. The little girl could console herself that she would never have to mourn, the others that they got that one beautiful taste."

"So it had a happy ending for everyone?"

"All endings are happy -- if you know how to look at them."

"Ah, Walter. Your Pollyanna side hasn't been explored nearly enough. Did you love Sharon?"

Rough sound, blur of pale. Walter was scrubbing his face with his hands. "I thought I did... but someone once told me that you never really fall out of love with someone. By the time we split for good she was... just another person."

"Does it bother you that you never loved her?"

"Yes. She deserved better."

"Everyone deserves to be loved? Everyone?"

"No, not everyone. Some people only deserve a bootheel to the face. Some people deserve worse. But if they find love anyway..."

"... you'll just have to polish those brass knuckles to a high shine."

"Precisely."

"Go to sleep, Walter."

Jaw-cracking yawn, shift within the sleeping bag. "Sir, yes, *sir*."

Alex smiled briefly, and set about cleaning his gun.

~~~~  
End.  
~~~~

Notes: Song quote taken without permission from "Malibu," by Hole. Also, Rye has informed me that the story I was referencing was "All Summer in a Day," by Ray Bradbury. And that I got the plot slightly wrong. Whoops. Sorry. 

 

* * *

 

Ever After III: Getting Free  
by Te  
11/98  
Disclaimers: They belong to a lot of people who simply refuse to be me.   
Spoilers: If there are any, they're pretty vague.  
Ratings Note: NC-17 for poor language, disturbing imagery, violence, and m/m interaction.  
Summary: Lives get smaller, lives expand.   
Author's Note: Hey, look! It's a series. Shoot me. For this to make sense you should probably read:  
    "Ever After"  
    "Ever After II: Road Songs and Memory"  
Time is a bit iffy in this one, but, for the sake of clarity, you can assume it takes place about sixteen hours after "Ever After II."  
Acknowledgments: To my Sister Blue, for being validation, encouragement, and wonder in one lovely package. To Dawn Sharon for the all important pre-stroke, and to Cynthia and Spike for fine beta. All remaining mistakes and ambiguities are, as always, my own fault. Feel free to call me on them at the address below. 

* * *

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
Ever After III: Getting Free  
by Te  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

******  
I'm gonna rescue you, I'm gonna set you free tonight, baby...  
******

Mulder lay curled on the rank, dusty pallet and immediately yanked himself out of the grim little fantasy. He was Mulder, and he was curled, but the bed was soft and clean. He was never quite sure when it happened, but the sheets were always clean. There was no smell here less palatable than himself.

He opened his eyes to stained grey/blandly beige walls, tried idly to make the hazy bars of the fantasy...

//It's a *door*. A fucking *door*.//

... dance to the patterns of his mind. The room was a cell, but it was brightly blandly cheerful. There were no rats, the sheets were clean. The screams of the other prisoners, presuming there were any, were blocked by the thick walls.

Not padded. They either trusted him to avoid the amateur theatrics the stone suggested, or longed for him to provide the entertainment. Lord knew he didn't jerk off anymore. 

In the old days -- he was no longer sure if it had been weeks or months, but his pride refused to allow him to consider the idea that it may have only been days -- They had been more... creative in their attempts to get him to talk.

//"Mulder... Mulder, wake up."

//"Alex, what--"

//"Shh, they don't know I'm here. I had to do a lot of scuttling to get the price off my head."

//"But... but you said you wouldn't--

//Rough hand, soft on his face. The bruises from his capture had begun to heal. Faster than he'd expected, and that suggested drugs.

//"It's OK, Mulder, it's OK... Fuck, that's a lie, but they took out everyone I was working with months back. Gave me a choice."

//"And you chose... this? Alex, why?"

//The hand had worked its way into his hair, carding the strands with the sort of carefully gentle restlessness he'd come to dream of. "God, Mulder, I'm so sorry... they told me they had you. Showed me pictures-- I couldn't take the chance, I *couldn't*. By the time I figured out you hadn't been taken at all, they'd set you up too neatly for you to escape--"

//Mulder swallowed, tried and failed to force himself to shake free, to stop breathing in the scent of leather and razorwire the man trailed even when nude -- silky-hot and near silent except those few times they could both be sure they were truly alone. "Why... why are you here now?"

//Brief bark of laughter in the dimness. "Haven't we done this already? I'm here for you. Christ, Mulder, just tell Them what they want to know. And then we can be together always. I love you--" And then Alex was burying his face in Mulder's neck, whispering soft and harsh. "I need you so much...."

//Mulder felt himself heavy and hard in the anonymous sweats, felt tears start to roll even as he wrapped his arms around the other man and pulled him closer. "Oh, God, Alex I can't... I can't do this... I love you so much but I *can't*--"

//Alex pulled back angrily. "I taught you to *survive*, Mulder."

//Mulder smiled ruefully, reached up to touch the loved face one last time. "You also taught me about the sweetness of a truly beautiful lie."

//Alex stared blankly for a moment before pulling off the bed, morphing into black-haired Scully. He would never call *that* Dana. 

//"You always were a fool, Mulder." And then the shapeshifter was gone with a neatly professional sway and click click click of the most sensible heels ever fashioned.//

After that, there had been more blank time, fast and intangible. More drugs, then... but the shapeshifter had been correct about nearly everything. He didn't let himself muse on the fact that the only error was in making "Alex" voice his feelings so clearly... It had been enough to feel it in the roll of his bones, the light vibration of a moaning throat. 

But, Alex *had* taught him several neat tricks to survival, including the long, long two weeks when they'd done nothing but fill Mulder full of assorted truth drugs until he started developing immunities and learned to babble of useless things instead of dangerous ones.

That was still when things were calm -- nothing but the hard-regained X Files and the occasional dress down from Skinner. Dana...

//Scully. Scully. Scully, come back.//

... had given him several odd looks over the next months --the immunization process took time -- and Mulder sincerely hoped he'd told her something useful one of those days. As opposed to just meaninglessly factual.

He feared there were too many comments about her need to eat less rabbit food, though, and was grateful the memories were hazy at best.

He didn't like to look at his hands anymore, and the throb of poor healing suggested they desired privacy as well. One day he'd come back to himself at sharp pain and harsh voices. That was a mercifully brief phase of awareness --

//Remember, Mulder -- the best defense is a distinct lack of consciousness.//

\-- and then just the black. The black was beautiful and soft, and could hide anything at all. Of course, that meant monsters, too, but he lived and fed and cried at monsters every day. The only fear was of forever. And sometimes out of the black came the voices he missed most. 

Throaty and matter of fact, snapping and smiling despite herself.

Husky and needful, knowing and gentle and he missed so much... Such a brief time and he often pored over the memories, looking for times he could've been more assiduous in his taking. Greedier. Alex would've appreciated it, though Mulder had hated the urge to hold him tighter still when the bone-fatigue of encroaching dawn threatened to take him away.

//"You're not helping us to get past the Tragic Lovers theme, Alex."

//"I don't know, I always kinda wanted to be a part of my own theme."

//"Think of all the morning hard-ons going unsatisfied."

//"Who says -- *oh* -- you mean *yours*."

//"Slut."

//"Yes?"

//"Just checking."

//"I'm here, Mulder. Even when... I'm here, all right?"

//The smile felt lazy, sweet on his face. "All right. Remind me next time that we're going to work on that communication thing."

//Blitzkrieg kiss, whipping and lovely, ending with a slow nibble on his much-abused lower lip. "Mmmm... before or after the knives and poison?"

//"After. But before the wild lions show up."//

There was just enough time to curse himself for not arching up to brush himself, naked and sticky, against all that leather and denim, for not sucking on Alex's tongue long enough to earn just one more hungry little groan, before another voice broke the stillness.

"Mulder? Mulder, wake up."

Sweet, gentle and just a little too high. 

Byers, then, and it hadn't taken him long the first time to realize this one, at least, was no denizen of his black.

//"Mulder, shh, it's Byers."

//"John?" Choked, but still clear enough to understand.

//"Yes, Mulder. Please, I don't understand... why won't you just tell them?"//

But Byers had never yelled, or hit him, or tried very hard to seduce him away from what little of himself he'd managed to hold on to. And these times were necessary. Cool water in the desert and he could not, could not care how stereotypically victimized his small acquiescence to these visits made him.

"I'm awake, John. What's new in the Fascistest Place on Earth?"

******

Walter never grew tired of the utter stupidity of a complacent enemy. This facility -- Growth Installation 412B was the official designation -- had been built quickly, most probably by locals. Stupid not to use the army, or even the reserve. They would've known to clear the brief stretch of woods away. 

Though they may have chosen not to share such things.

The woods were sparse, bare with winter and whatever else clouded the atmosphere these days, but more than sufficient to cloak his companion and himself. The perimeter guards had been bored and chilly -- easy prey. 

Alex was jittered and strung. Lean weapon blending with the night, longing for a target with every fiber of his being.

"T minus two, Walt."

Cool and sleek and Walter's blood was up, high pound even and natural in his ears. "Objectives."

"Mayhem and murder, Walt. No prisoners, no mercy. In and out in five. Take nothing that won't fit in a pocket."

"Charges?"

"Planted at east and south, north isn't registering. The modifications appear to be working."

"We'll see when we blow it."

A pause, and, as always at these times, Walter counted down himself. Mother, father, dead and gone. Brother vague and distant memory -- meningitis, just as gone. Himself, still alive and damned if these times didn't make it almost worthwhile.

"Four, three, two..."

And Walter was off, hearing nothing but the absence of pound and breath that was his partner at his best. Others at the gate and Alex took them both with one punch of the prosthesis. It hadn't taken long to find out that the seemingly empty socket was really just a more convenient than usual weapon. 

//They gave me a choice, Walt. A new arm would've required months of retraining. Regenerate a little muscle, a few nerves... Hell, I'd already spent years trying and failing to use it like an arm any fucking way.//

Racing and racing and inside, shades darkening to accept the sudden burst of white. Stark and ugly and no need for any gleaming entryways replete with polished secretaries and potted plants... no one to fool anymore. 

Row after row of massive plastic tubes. Coffins for the mothers, birthing chambers for the new spawn. Word was there was still no way to control the dangerous little halflings, but that didn't stop the breeding. 

Alex went right, Walter left, setting charges as they went. The sunset scout had revealed a back entrance, and this was the goal. No alarm yet but --

A clump of stumbling guards. Human this time. Four men, and if any one of them was a day over eighteen then that *was* lemonade staining the third one's neat white jumper. 

//No prisoners.//

And this semiautomatic made no claims to silence, but the boys were down before their shaky little hands could get their own guns free of the neat, new holsters. Walter placed a charge on the messy pile of bodies. No reason to give their parents anything to be ashamed of. 

Back and back and it was getting darker here, dim and warm for those halflings further along in their gestation. A row of grotesquely pregnant women, a row of things he'd never wanted to see, a row of nascent enemies. Walter set the last charges. When he made it to the door Alex was already there, bleeding from the face and holding his side. 

"Found something that fit in my pocket."

Walter nodded, knocked the door open. If they made it out there'd be time to discuss whatever Alex had found. The alarm went off but they were running and running and when Alex hit the button they were already two miles away and the wind was hot and fierce on their backs. 

******

John made an effort to look at Mulder, but it was always difficult to do that with the prisoners at times like these.

"You're quiet today, John. I know the inner workings of totalitarian regimes tend to be deadly dull save for the occasional boy flogging and rape, but --"

"Christ, Mulder. You couldn't just give a little, could you?"

John stood up from his sturdy little chair -- always brought in for him by some namelessly sturdy and large man for these visits -- and raked his hand through his hair. 

"You know I can't."

Mulder's voice was as quiet as ever. He'd never even yelled at him for being here, being this... whatever he was. The first time John had asked if he could speak to the prisoners he was just trying to look useful.

Not everyone in the new order had their very own bearded catamite, pliant and unobtrusive. Langly had been angry when he'd heard. Raised his hand. Didn't hit him, but once tends to be enough for some things.

//"They need a gentle hand, Langly!"

//"They don't need anything but a bullet, Princess. Remember that."

//"They wouldn't still be alive and pissing you off if they talked."

//Glitter flash in hazel eyes and he remembered when that had meant more than just the anger of a knife finding itself far too clean. "And you think you can get them to talk, Princess?" Cold and dangerous, and even now that it was no longer just fantasy material the effect on him was the same.

//John sidled up in a way he'd never thought he'd know how to do, tilted back his chin. No challenge, simple offer. "Let me try. I want... I want to be good for you."

//And John had wondered when simple truth had become such a wonderful tool, but it didn't matter when Langly pulled him close...//

"What is it, John?"

John laughed, and the sound was not too dissimilar to the one he'd given upon finding himself here. "You can't seriously be asking me that question, Mulder."

He turned to see the other man lounging on the rumpled bed with casual grace. The bruises could have been only shadows in the dimness, though the lines around Mulder's mouth were tight, and far too deep.

"Do you know what I'm here for today?"

"Another game of twenty questions I won't answer and more babble about my nonexistent love life?"

In response John pulled the syringe from the inside pocket of his jacket, still sealed neatly in plastic. 

"New and interesting truth serum? Hey, that last one gave me some wicked visuals. For a while there you had these cute little antennae --"

"It's not a new serum."

The smile faded slowly, leaving only curiosity in its wake.

"I wasn't aware you were pulling clean-up duty these days."

"It's been a long time, Mulder. They've decided any information you might have had is out of date, anyway."

Mulder nodded, settled himself into a seated position, and began to roll up his sleeve before he stopped, wincing.

"What is it?"

Mulder touched his leg and suddenly there was red staining the plain, grey sweats. "Broke open an old wound, I'm guessing."

"Oh. Oh. I'm so sorry, Mulder..." And he was, but John still cursed himself for saying it now. 

"Eh. Not much longer, right?"

John swallowed, and wondered if it had been better or worse that it was Langly who'd clapped the syringe in his palm before sending him off. Before he quite knew what he was doing, he was sitting beside Mulder on the bed, dabbing ineffectually at the blood.

"Blood on my firm, young thighs, no one to kiss it away... Such a tragedy."

John looked at the hopelessly stained hankie before tucking it back in his jacket. "I preferred the movie, myself."

Mulder grinned, finished rolling up his sleeve, and settled his hands on his lap. Not together, of course. The gnarled things probably couldn't do that anymore. "I never saw the film version, actually."

"Never? You probably deserve this, then."

Bark of laughter. "Black humor suits you better than I would've suspected, John."

John wasn't sure how he should respond to that, so he settled for going back to the prior line of thought. "Please tell me you at least saw the Rivera version."

"Vanessa Williams."

"Mulder, that's wrong on so *many* levels --"

"Hey, she was good. I took... I took Dana to see it after she'd come back from the abduction. In New York for some bullshit case... I made her get all dressed up. I honestly think she thought I'd make her sit through a Knicks game..."

John nodded and hmmed at what were probably the right places, but his thoughts were with Garcia. She had been the first prisoner he'd been allowed to see -- long, curly hair and so far gone that John had never been anyone other than "Father Kevin." 

He'd been ordered not to correct her, especially since Garcia's confession had been lengthy and detailed. John had studied well, and the night before she was due to be executed he'd given her the Last Rites. Yet he had not prayed for himself, and it hadn't been long before he held the needles himself. They all came to trust him, after all.

"... and, besides, the Spider Woman was the epitome of liebestod. Not even. Death, yeah, but not love... Sex. No way a sixty year old woman should be Sex."

"Now who's being the fascist?"

"Hey, if I lived until I was sixty maybe I'd feel different. But I'd probably still drool over pneumatic blondes in tight clothing."

John snickered, felt something lift he hadn't been aware had been pressing. He wanted to hold it there, but there was no time or space in this place to gather himself properly. 

//So roll with it.//

"Besides, I think they were saying that the only love *was* in death."

"Ah, I love artistic types. Who else can pull beauty out of bullshit?"

"Farmers?"

"Hmm... Well, who else can look so cool in all black?"

"Bikers?"

"Damn. I'm floundering here, John."

"Ummm... no one else can angst so attractively?"

Low chuckle. "No, I'm afraid Alex told me once that I wore guilt beautifully."

"One could never fault the man for taste."

"Heh. Did you ever meet Marita Covarrubias?"

"No, I don't think so."

"Then I'll allow you to hold on to your pleasant little fantasy."

"You're a gracious man, Mulder."

"Yes, well, I try."

Long, companionable silence and John thought of other nights. Good beer and the pleasant rest spaces between tales of paranoia and random oddities. He wondered where Frohike was.

"John?"

"Yeah?"

"Could you tell me why? I mean, I'm just curious."

No one had ever asked, and the question was strange to him.

//Did I ever ask myself?//

"I... There were all the landings, and people were losing it all over the place. It was insane. I remember we tried to reach you, but you were already..."

"In Walla Walla, yes."

"I thought it was Texarkana."

"I lied."

"I can't tell you how disappointed that makes me."

More low laughter and John wondered for the first time how he'd *really* gotten here, Langly or no Langly.

"I remember watching some reporter on television laughing and crying and basically doing everything but piss himself --though I could be wrong, they only showed him from the waist up -- and I remember this soft little thump. Not a sound, just a feeling. And I remember Langly waking me up with a blow job."

"How long had the two of you been together?"

"A year and a half... I never suspected."

"Yeah, well, no one did. So, you loved him enough..."

"Yeah."

And John remembered his own little room, much darker than this one. He'd been no political prisoner, and there'd been no need to impress him with delicious slices of irony. There was the day he'd spat in Langly's face, and the answering backhand, and the salt in his mouth could have been either tears or blood when he'd cradled Langly's head in his lap, and listened to tales of corruption.

"Yeah. I loved him. I love him."

Mulder only nodded, and John wondered if this would be happening quite this way if the illusion they'd provided for Mulder had been more accurate. 

"I'm ready, John."

******

Minivan number six but nothing was moving but an irritatingly tepid cloth over the wound in his side. The cooler somehow managed to be less comfortable to sit on than cold, stony ground and Alex had never wanted this man to kneel between his legs any less than he did now.

"It's just a fucking flesh wound, Walter, let's *move*."

"Shut up and sit still. The last thing we need is for you to go septic."

"Then dump some alcohol, slap on the gauze and *then* let's move."

"Easy, dammit, this looks deep."

Calloused fingers dancing over his ribs and Alex twitched hard, awake and aware of everything. Yet another reason to work alone -- if he wanted to jerk off at the smell of lingering cordite and just the fact that he remained alive, no one would ever see...

That was a thumb pressing hard against his side, smoothing the tape down in what he knew would be a perfect, even line. Alex stared angrily over one shoulder -- comfortably ensconced in a tee shirt now that the raid was done -- and tried to think of anything but his own cock.

But the thumb never left his skin, just slid to the center of his chest and stayed there. 

//Oh Jesus.//

"Alex."

He could feel the other man's head just beside his own. The cut throbbed, his dick throbbed and Walter was still kneeling between his legs.

"Just you and me here, old man."

"Takes more than a day --"

"Shut the fuck up."

Awkward, beautifully painful shift and he'd yanked Walter's hand to his cock and nudged them mouth to mouth with a will and his own face. "Just. Shut. Up."

Walter's mouth was an acid burn of adrenaline and dying fear, thick tongue battling his own into welcome submission. The hand at his crotch squeezed and kneaded and Alex bucked into it mindlessly. Quick move and he was on the floor, on his back, damned happy they'd thought to ditch the removable seat and Walter was tearing at his jeans.

"C'mon, man, c'mon--"

And getting free was good. Fast and dirty and good and he wanted Walter to slide right down and take him in, to slam his body against Alex's own and shift and thrust and slide until the musk was higher than the gun oil for just fucking once but jerking into Walter's fist was good, too.

Alex could hear himself grunting and moaning into the dimness but couldn't care about the noise, not with those deep chocolate eyes boring down into his own, watching him for something he sincerely hoped he was giving because this would never be Mulder again.

Mulder wouldn't have understood this black need anyway. Or maybe he would've but he damned well wasn't there and the tight hot bulge nudging his hip was rough counterpoint to the other man's jerks and squeezes.

"Walter--"

No more words because the other man was down and over and around him, hand never leaving his cock, mouth sealed to his own, pulling out the cries with his come and leaving Alex breathless and panting.

But the sleepy haze that wanted to descend was too much like other times, and had no place here. Alex shot up, heedless of the sharp, warm pull of the wound and reached for Walter's hand. Caught his eye before lapping the palm and fingers clean. Twined it with his own and brought it to the other man's cock, still trapped in his own jeans.

"You want this?"

"If this is revenge for rejection couldn't you just kick me in the head, instead?"

Alex's smile felt merrily dark, and the way Walter brought their hands tighter against himself made him want to smile like that until his jaw fell off. No more time for teasing, then, and Alex undid their fingers for just long enough to undo Walter's pants, tug him free of the worn boxers. And then he made sure they locked eyes and hands again, and began to stroke.

He let Walter choose the rhythm, and it was easy to just go with it, lose himself in dark eyes that never once lost their focus on his own, even as the other man's hips slutted themselves into their palms.

Thud of blood, high singing wire of tension and they might as well have been tethered together by it because no one, no one would ever be able to convince Alex that his thoughts weren't a match for Walter's own.

//Just us.

//Just this.

//Just fine.

//Until we die.//

******

By the time John had returned to their quarters Langly was asleep. His hair had begun to grow out again from the last buzz, and it crested like a bird's against the pillow. No one else had ever claimed to love him, need him. No one else. He ran his hand over it lightly, settled in to watch the other man sleep.

And began to think.

~~~~  
End.  
~~~~

Song quote taken without permission from "Malibu" by Hole.

 

* * *

 

28 Nov 98  
Ever After Interlude: A Moment's Superiority  
by Te  
11/98  
Disclaimers: Not mine at all.   
Spoilers: Not a one.  
Ratings Note: R for language, implied m/m interaction.  
Summary: Walter does some thinking.  
Author's Note: In chronological order, the series is as follows:  
    "Ever After"  
    "Ever After II: Road Songs and Memory"  
    "Ever After III: Getting Free"  
    "Ever After Interlude: A Moment's Superiority"  
Takes place about a hour and a half after the end of EA3, and the others are pretty necessary to read in order to follow this one, I think.  
Acknowledgments: To Sister Blue, for tireless use of her bullshit machete. To Dawn Sharon for fine audiencing and encouragement, to Cynthia for brave attempts to make me make sense, and to Pares for fine beta *and* a title. All remaining mistakes and ambiguities are entirely my own fault. 

* * *

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
Ever After Interlude: A Moment's Superiority  
by Te  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Walter took the turn onto the narrow, barely paved pissant of a road optimistically named "Highway 51" and swallowed a sigh. An hour into the two hour drive to the next "rest stop" and Alex hadn't said a word.

Not that this was particularly out of character -- the other man was rarely all that talkative, but Walter had the distinct impression they had sunk into newer, deeper waters and it...

It scared him.

This was life and death, and, whatever their intentions had been upon taking to the road, Walter had no intention of dying stupidly in some tangled emotional haze. 

He chanced a look at Alex, and swallowed another sigh. The man was blank-faced and placid in the passenger seat, sprawled in something that looked a whole lot like relaxation. He wasn't at all sure whether he wanted it to be simply another well-crafted impression or not.

He'd broken a promise to himself. Stay clear and clean of this man lest he... Lest he what? There was no denying the attraction; Alex had always been beautiful. And there was something about the endless series of layers and games that had always made him, if not smile, then at least acknowledge the humor Alex's presence in the world generated.

A trickster, and Walter wanted to know the older gods well enough to thank them for this gift. Deadly and smooth, by turns brilliant and awkwardly young.... Walter often thought of Alex's first incarnation, and had decided the other man would not have been able to play certain games had there not been some kernel of truth to build on.

And he made Walter ache. Every laugh, every snarl, every enemy taken down in a moment's casual savagery.... It was all a wonder to behold. Secure in his own feelings of superiority to the world at large, Walter doubted any man still living could appreciate Alex on as many levels as Walter had, and still did.

And yet, there was the Mulder question. Long dead but still hanging over them, a presence of sardonic wit and lean musculature. Voice unforgotten even as the scent faded into time.

He'd made the decision to refuse Alex's advances nearly instinctively, trusting in the urge as only, perhaps, a soldier would learn to do. There was always time later to justify such things. A flight of birds taking off suddenly, a hastily contained breakdown in yet another car left burnt and abandoned off some distant, anonymous roadside.

Walter had *wanted*, and the instinct to quash such things was hoary and powerful as any incantation from on high. Later, he had told himself of grief, and human healing, and played noble confessor to Alex's penitent in long hours of stilted talk and banked tears. As if he'd known of what he spoke.

A platitude here, an aphorism there... long stories that flowed as naturally from his lips as blood, and where the hell had they come from, anyway?

Had he ever really believed in what he told Alex, or was it all pious justification of his own immature desire to self-deny? Yes, he could admit such things were immature. There was, perhaps, no more clear sign of a flawed character than a boy struggling to hurt himself to prove his manhood.

And when that boy would never see fifty again...

Shameful, then. A mistake not to be repeated. And yet, and yet... what if he'd been doing the right thing for all the wrong reasons? So long as right was done, all was well, and Alex... 

Alex didn't love him, never had. Even before the truth about the other man had begun to trickle from the cracks, here and there... even then there were nights when he could smell Mulder on him. Sprayed territory, though the man himself would never have claimed such behavior. 

And when he couldn't smell Mulder, well... 

Did Alex truly need to shower before four p.m.?

Later, he'd been able to tell himself that it was all part of the twisty little bastard's games and orders. Seduce all you can, Lord knows you have the ass for it.

The mouth... That mouth. Some hot, hazy day, some further proof that Washington D.C. was no place fit for any but the rank beasts of the jungle and Alex had walked right into his office. Ignored his barks and growls for explanation and walked up to him in his comfy, official chair. Knelt and blown him.

No reason at all he could discern other than to further disorder his mind. And, for all he knew, for Alex that was probably better reason than any.

Hot mouth on his cock, and the breathy space of sordidness was silent mockery of the heat outside, shame to the non-functional air conditioning. *This* was fire, this was the gorgeous hell of a thousand woodcuts -- the stalag and stalac of teeth and the river of an impossible tongue and Alex had taken it all...

Tidy and efficient, a lie to the man, a truth to the illusion, and after, before he could regain some shreds of his hard-won dignity and command, he'd pulled the other man to him for a brutal kiss of something not quite definable. Tasted himself with triumph and joy and sent him back to his partner. 

Walter shook himself internally, struggled to retrace the lingering scent of his thoughts. Alex. Always and forever?

There had been a sort of communion, marriage to the brutal sex of little more than an hour ago. An understanding reached of mutual need and no more lies... But how do you tell the truth when it's nowhere near coherent in your mind? There was *nothing* here clean and neat, no lines of fire and march for a man to believe in. 

The freshly scrubbed lieutenants had been victims waiting to happen in his other war, and this was a lesson to hold to, and understand.

But he wanted no struggle with this man beyond the shift and flex of pared-down muscle in the sweet dark... A home as flowing and stately as any mansion on the hill. 

*Alex* was clean and neat, simple in his paths when taken to the core, and so he had wanted. But the two of them, here, were nothing of the sort.

For a moment, Walter entertained a fantasy of roads untaken, an Alex who had never managed to get through to Mulder. That need he understood, and even condoned from the safety of distance and death, but what *if*? What if Walter had not been so lost in paper battles that he could've walked through the urban night and nightmares until he'd found the man? Taken him home and made him his own?

Walter knew his face was as poorly designed as any child's first and lazy attempt at sculpture. And yet he was tall, and strong, and he knew Alex saw many of the same things in Walter that Walter had seen in him. 

Though he wondered if what Alex had seen in him had more to do with potential than reality... If so, was what he'd become what Alex had always wanted?

They could've had something. He knew it. He could *taste* it, gone but unforgotten salt on his tongue and the bright tang of a lust uncondoned. But he had, somewhere, lost his chance, and Mulder had stepped up and stepped in. 

Alex would never have let an opportunity go unexploited, but he could admit to himself that he'd lacked the faith in Mulder. Too rigidly black and white, too willing to wash his hands of those who had failed to live up to his vaunted moral standards.

And he was angry less for wounds to his own pride than for the fact that the man was still *there*--

"You're quiet tonight."

Walter grunted in reply, smiled internally at his own re-enaction of stereotype.

"You're not fucking brooding about the sex."

It wasn't a question, and Walter was grateful for the opportunity not to reply.

"Walter."

And the road was pitted and unkempt. Hail most probably.

"*Walter*."

"What?"

He turned to look at Alex, took in the curious blend of rage and incredulity. It made his eyes brightly, poisonously olive in the dashboard lights.

"Walter, this... this isn't us. We're just not fucking *built* for this.. this *mooning*."

"A place for everyone and everyone in his place?"

"So long as mine involves a gun and regular fucks, it works for me."

"If that were the case you never would've changed sides."

The incredulity was gone, replaced with the sort of blinding anger that was more likely to kill the man himself than the object of his wrath. Quickly stifled with an almost audible push. "If you're going to be jealous of a... of a *dead man* then we might as well just ram this fucking boat into the nearest tree."

"Alex, I'm never going to believe--"

"You're too fucking old for this, Skinner. This isn't the prom and Susie didn't stand me up for the captain of the football team. There are no second choices when there was never a choice at all."

"Al--"

"No, Walter. *No*. You can't believe? Well I can't believe we're fucking dealing with this. This is *us*. The best thing I can do for myself is move the fuck on. This is the life we lead? Well, fine. Just keep my ammo stocked."

"And you're going to tell me that it's over. He's dead, I'm not, let's screw."

"You always were a poet." Alex slammed his head back to the seat and sucked in a breath. "The healthy, correct thing for me to do is grieve in the best way I can. I'm not an idiot, I loved a fucking psychiatrist, and the stupid bastard loved me back --No, shut up. Let me talk."

Walter subsided, curled and uncurled his fingers around the wheel.

"The only thing grief gets you is tears and some form of sappy closure. 

"Well, guess what? Closure is *useless* in this world. There is no grave for me to cry over. Mulder hated flowers. So, what's left? We've been damned lucky, old man, and you know just as well as I do that it won't last.

"We're never going to be the poster children for 'Healthy Queer Relationships of the New Millennium.' We're never going to have the house, the dog, the Martha Stewart seal of approval on the decor..."

Walter felt himself smiling with something like surprise. "You're drifting."

"Didn't I tell you to shut up?"

A snort and Walter leaned back in some half-forgotten sensory memory of ease. "My apologies. Please do continue."

"*Anyway*... Walter, you're probably the closest thing I've had to a friend since Peskow disappeared into God knows where... Bastard. I was *just* about to kill him and off he goes..."

"Hard to believe."

"Oh, so *now* you want to talk? Too fucking bad. Look, it's just us now. Until we get our much-delayed blaze of glory. Let's..."

"Make the most of the opportunity we've been given and screw like bunnies in between fits of mass murder?"

Slow smile in the comfortable gloom. "I think you're catching on."

"I try."

And the silence was heavy and warm, and Walter found himself looking forward to the inevitable awkwardness of trying to cuddle with the other man. 

Miles and miles of lonely highway and Walter had the niggling suspicion it was a song he'd hated. He could almost hear it in the blur of trees and mile markers outside his window, some meaningful whine about sleep and love by a man who'd never gone without either. But it was starting to feel something like all right.

Though that in itself was reason for suspicion and he let himself laugh. Alex didn't bother to ask why.

"Walter?"

"Yeah."

"There's something else."

"Mmph. Always more."

"Always... I don't know what I'm doing. I'm making this up as I go along..."

"Can't be new to you."

"No, but... I can't promise... I can't promise you that I'll always be this... this settled."

Walter reached over and grabbed his shoulder, not letting himself hesitate at reaching higher, brushing the smooth, soft skin of the other man's throat. 

"I know, Alex. Just don't lose it in the middle of a mission or..."

Flash of humor he thought he could feel under his palm, though he couldn't say precisely why. 

"Or what?"

"No sex for a week."

A snicker and Walter squeezed, briefly considered just pulling off anywhere for the sake of bedding down as quickly as humanly possible. 

"You'd never make it."

"All right, nothing but blow jobs for a week."

"A lot of blow jobs?"

"No more than four a day. For each of us."

"You're a hard man, Walt."

He eyed the other man as gravely and somberly as possible.

"Yes, but fair."

~~~~  
End.  
~~~~


End file.
